


The Birth of Nimue

by Self_san



Series: The Creation of Camelot [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, Insanity, Killing, Pain, Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:13:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's never afraid.</p>
<p>Except with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birth of Nimue

He wasn’t--

But he was, she realized, her body leaning up into the caress without prompt. She stared at the pale, creamy ceiling, her heart thundering between the frail cage of her ribs. 

Her breath whispered from between her lips, her hands clutching his wide shoulders. She could feel the scars on his back, and shivered to recall how he hid them so skillfully, so carefully, beneath his fancy three-piece bespoke suits, his neat cufflinks, his shinned shoes.

And yet, here he was, with her. With her. 

And he was important to her. 

Oh, she shuddered, oh, how God was laughing. 

Her. Him. Them. Together. 

*

His body was hot beside hers, and she curled even closer, tucking her frigid feet behind his knees and her hands against his firm stomach. He grumbled, hissing in his state of half sleep as she buried her nose between his shoulder blades and breathed. 

Slowly. Deeply. She cherished the chance to just stop. Just exist. Just for a moment. 

Her watch is heavy on her wrist, and she knows that soon, it would be time to go. 

The envelope he had given her with her next assignment was tucked into her coat which lay on the floor beneath his vest. In the glittering hotel room, in the dark of the bedside, she breathed, and waited. 

Her body was a delightful ache, and her lips throbbed with bruises. 

She would get him back for them, later. She hated when he left marks, especially when she would soon be leaving for work. 

He sighed, and she fought not to tense when his big hands grabbed her wrists and he twisted, flipping her onto her back, with him looming above her. Her legs tangled in the silk sheets and she stared up at him, past his head, at the ceiling. 

Was it time for another round? 

He made a disgusted noise, low in his throat, and she could practically feel his sneer as he looked at her. She frowned. 

“Look at me,” he demanded, silkily as the sheets between and beneath them. She blinked. Tried. 

It was hard. 

Her eyes kept slipping, going from his forehead to his nose to his chin to his lips. 

A hand came up. Grabbed her face, long fingers spanning over her chin and up her cheeks, almost to her temples. She breathed deeply through it, her teeth pressed tight to her cheeks, her tongue heavy. 

His hand smelled like sex, like him and like her. 

She fought not to gag as he flicked his wrist, and his nose touched her. His eyes bore into hers, and her throat was so tight, she almost couldn’t breath. 

She always forgot. 

His eyes were blue. 

*

She bit the inside of her lip, breathing slowly. 

He stood, just outside her peripheral vision. She could feel him, could feel his eyes skirt across her shoulders and down her neck, to the thick bands of leather that transversed her chest, hooking her in place. 

Like a fish. 

She breathed, stared straight ahead. 

A tug on each limb, across her stomach. 

She was secure. 

She breathed, and the white walls glared harshly under the florescent lights. 

She breathed, and the chair tipped. 

Her stomach dropped, and she felt like she was flying. 

She hit the water, and it was as cold as ice. It was sin, stretching across her skin, wrapping her in hatred and fear and the insatiable curiosity. 

She kept her eyes open, and the water was as blue as his eyes. 

*

One. Two. Three. Four. 

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. 

Scream. 

*

She didn’t know his name, though she was sure he had given it. Once. Maybe. 

He must have, right?

*

One. Two. Three. 

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Breath.

*

She doesn’t mind running. She likes it most of all, actually. 

The feeling of the wind in her hair and in her lungs, the heat of the sun or the cool of the moon on her skin. 

She likes jumping, the thrill of almost flying she gets as she jumps roof to roof, swinging, running, lunging. 

She likes it when she almost doesn’t make it, too. When the urgency is like a butterfly in her stomach, her muscles clenching, burning, as she strains--

She never misses.

Except when she does. 

*

One. Two. Three. Four. 

Snap. Snap. Snap. 

She doesn’t blink. 

*

She waits patiently, swinging her legs and tracing a trail of ice-cream down the side of her hand. Her eyes watch the crowd, the knife a shard of ice against her back, her sundress white and pretty in the noonday sun. 

There. 

She smiles, twirls, dumps her half-eaten cone and prances across the square, following. 

Her throat tastes like blood as she slides the knife home, dodging the flailing limbs with ease. 

Wipe. Gurgle. 

Done.

She exits the hotel room, and her dress is as white as snow. 

*

One. Two. Th--

Snap. 

It’s their turn to scream, she thinks, the scalpel as bright as diamond in her fist. 

*

Applause. 

She bows, turns, and there he is. 

He’s smiling. 

It’s the most terrifying thing she has ever seen. 

*

“Oh, sir, you’re daughter is just so beautiful!” the waitress says, her lips red like blood, spreading, like her throat would if she could just get to her--

His hand is like an anvil on her shoulder. He laughs, that polite, oh-gee-thanks laugh that he uses sometimes. 

“She takes after her mother, you see,” he explains, asking for the check. 

She smiles at the waitress, and feels like glass as he hugs her close to his side. 

When he turns, his eyes are cold. 

*

His tongue is heavy in her mouth, vying for room. She’s held against the wall of a different hotel, and she thinks she can see the Paris skyline from the window. 

“You know, I must say that I do love it when they assume,” he murmurs, pulling back to reach down the front of her dress. 

She shrugs, because, really, what the hell? He’s not that much older than her. 

Right? 

Right. 

She sighs, leaning in when he just gives up and tears the front out of her dress and slip. She lost track.

It’s happening more frequently. 

But she’s not afraid. 

She’s never afraid. 

Except with him.


End file.
